Healing
by Windswift
Summary: Many things were broken that night in Holehallow. What Mogget and Sabriel need cannot easily be fixed. But healing works in curious and unfathomable ways.


Disclaimer: The books _Sabriel_, _Lirael_, and _Abhorsen_ belong to Garth Nix.

Set during the time at Holehallow, at the end of Chapter XII of _Sabriel_

Not to be taken seriously, but I suppose this could be considered a slight, one-sided pairing of Mogget/Sabriel. The thought amuses me, but really, it has no relevance.

_**Healing**_

He felt ill.

Only hours before, they had been dying. He could still hear the shrieking whistle of the wind, feel their sickening plummet to the earth. The naïve little girl-child, Sabriel, had made a mistake.

But, no. Not after all the memories, the treachery, the millennia of servitude. It could not end like that—Mogget would not allow it—not in some desolate, Charter-forsaken marsh in the middle of nowhere, not as a collared cat crashing in an uncontrolled Paperwing. Maybe it would not kill him, although his desperate fears swore that he would not survive. But the Abhorsen, surely, would die. The Great Charters would become further warped, to Kerrigor's glee; Mogget was not particularly fond of the Dead prince. Then the fool would most likely stir up trouble by the name of Orannis, with which he most certainly did not wish to be involved.

He had screamed at Sabriel to loose his collar. To trust him.

And he had betrayed that trust.

At the moment, as he returned to his true and unbound form, all that had mattered to Mogget was living. So he had borne the Paperwing to safety—until they had tumbled into a hole hidden by the dark.

Sabriel had lain so very still amid the wreckage, her head lolling forward limply. Only the straps that had remained intact held her to the Paperwing, like a final childish embrace. A young woman, pale and lifeless.

Mogget trembled from his place concealed in the Paperwing, melded into the wings of the broken craft. Excitement pulsed within him—Free. Not Mogget anymore, not a cat, nor a dwarf, and not the Wallmaker's relic. He was Yrael, ancient as the world and as Free as pure Magic, the eighth of the Bright Shiners.

The luminous stars above sang so enchantingly, calling to the essence of white fire that coursed through him like mortal blood in veins. Yrael would dance tonight with them, sing tonight, in a celebration of Life as old as the world itself.

But the ignorant little schoolgirl in the Paperwing still breathed, soft and steady.

No… no… he was not yet Yrael again, he would never be truly Free, not until the girl was dead, the last of her line extinguished. However, Mogget possessed great patience. Having withstood millennia of servitude, of indignity, of unjust shame, he could wait for a few hours until the girl awoke. And then, he would have his vengeance.

…Sabriel had been terrified. He had said trust me, and then he had tried to kill her.

She had bound him again, using the ring. Consumed with horror, and a sort of pain and grief, she had stood there for a few minutes before she had realized how to complete the binding of Mogget. Now she sat in the darkness like a dead thing, as if lifeless and defeated.

A small white cat in the darkness, Mogget felt sick and dull. He had spent the hours kindling himself like a fire, burning with passion, rage, and memories that tasted faintly of regret. Then the binding spell had condensed all of that vivid, vibrant vitality into that small form of flesh, incapable of holding all of that intense and brilliant emotion inside itself.

He had once been Yrael, the eighth Bright Shiner. Now, he was only ashes, a relic of the Wallmakers, a thing he called Mogget.

Bitterness, ashes, and unshed tears were all that remained of the fury of abandonment and betrayal. It left him feeling ill, barely alive, and not nearly anything like himself.

The broken Paperwing had caught fire, leaving only ruins behind. The condition of the Abhorsen was pitiful; the whole Old Kingdom itself was an even sorrier state of affairs. And he hated it.

It would be a long, arduous, disgusting task for Sabriel to defeat Kerrigor. And it was Mogget's inherited job to see that she did so.

The Paperwing's remains were naught but a few scattered ashes. Sabriel's nose was bleeding heavily, not quite broken. Her face had been burned by his fire, and the rest of the girl suffered from myriad bruises, aches, and strains. Her spirit had been deeply shaken by his monstrous transformation, and her trust and faith in her enigmatic servant had been betrayed and shattered.

In those few nighttime hours, much had been broken. Very little of it could Mogget repair. But, someone had to try.

In any case, Saraneth would soon enough force him to right the situation. The Seven were loath to give up their prize, the Abhorsen. Mogget, they had determined, would be a bridge, a game master to keep in line the pawns and game pieces, to ensure the victory of "good," of "right," of "just," of "Life."

But… something Sabriel had spoken the other evening at dinner rang in his mind. _I can walk a different path._

Did the walker choose the path, or the path choose the walker? It had never mattered much to Mogget—when he had been Free, been Yrael, there had been no fate, no destiny. And now, Saraneth's influence swayed any free will he might have had in choosing his path.

The sight of the sickness plaguing Sabriel's heart as she crouched alone in the darkness stirred in Mogget memories he thought had ceased to bother him long ago. _Sentiment_, had been his mocking earlier, _A memory, now purged_.

But tonight he thought, for a moment, that he knew what it was he wanted, the path he would choose to walk. And the fact that he wanted it made all the difference, despite Saraneth's agreement to the plan.

The Paperwing was forfeit. The bruises would have to heal themselves. And the trust could only be regained with time, after the sting of betrayal faded. But what Mogget could help, he would do as best as he was able.

He carried a candle and match from her pack, and roused Sabriel with a gentle stroke of his cat-face against her hands. "Your nose is still bleeding. Light the candle, pinch your nose, and get some blankets out for us to sleep. It's getting cold."

Healing works in curious and unfathomable ways.

"Welcome back, Mogget."

**…****  
End  
…**

_-Windswift_


End file.
